


TV Rots Your Brain

by Duck_Life



Category: X-Force (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Gladiators, Kidnapping, Mojoworld, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 22:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: Rictor and Meltdown are captured and forced to fight in the same Arena where Shatterstar came of age.





	1. Chapter 1

Gauze is taped over the deep gash, the bandage wrapped around tightly to keep the wound from continuing to bleed. Warriors need to be healthy, strong, in good shape, else the fights will become lackluster. The ratings will take a nosedive. This has been impressed on the whitecoats at length, and they take their tasks seriously. 

The warrior does not flinch at the whitecoats’ cold hands the way he did once, after sustaining his first injury in combat. He sits, and says nothing, and does not meet their eyes. The injury will heal, this he knows for sure. Likely, it won’t even take him out of commission. 

When his airing period occurs next, he will return to the arena as scheduled. This damage means nothing. 

Once the whitecoats are satisfied with their handiwork, they send the warrior back to his quarters. He returns without fanfare, ignoring curious looks from other warriors in his unit. They seek only to know whether his injury will affect his fighting, whether their chances against him in the arena have increased. 

They haven’t. 

Of this, he is certain. 

Alone in his quarters, the warrior works methodically to clean his weapon— a short sabre, slightly curved. He has cut and killed with this weapon, but it’s mostly for show. The real weapon lies in his own genetic makeup. 

Still, he pours his concentration into cleaning the blade, sharpening it. His injury will heal soon enough, and his body will once more be in peak fighting condition. There is no reason his sword shouldn’t be the same. 

The warrior’s solitude doesn’t last long. 

Privacy is almost non-existent in the gladiatorial pens. When nothing belongs to you, it’s difficult to carve out a space meant only for you. Still, it is not terribly common for warriors to share or visit each other’s quarters. Alliances and grievances can be established in common areas— the feeding chambers, the viewing rooms. No need to intrude on another fighter. 

Not everyone follows this unspoken rule.

The woman who barges into his quarters is an ally in the arena. In team fights, they are partnered and paired, set upon opponents from other fighting classes. Her moves are brutal and chaotic, unexpected. Sponsors dubbed her Crashbang. 

“Are you okay?” Crashbang says now, ludicrously. Concern for others, even your allies, seems awkward and misplaced here. Insincere. A more appropriate question might be  _ Have your rations been increased?  _ or  _ Are you cleared for your next fight? _ Questions that might actually have an impact on Crashbang. 

“The damage will repair itself,” he confirms, setting his blade on the platform beside him. “It will not affect scheduling.” 

“Oh, good, because, ya know, that’s what I was really worried about, Mojo’s precious primetime viewership,” she says, venom dripping brazenly from her words. “If that slime’s prepared to throw us in the ring like a dogfight, maybe he should try it himself. Like to see that motherfucker take a broadsword to the shoulder.” If a retainer heard her speaking like this, she would be punished live on television, an example for the audience and for other fighters. 

If at some point in the future she becomes his enemy rather than his ally, he could use her own words against her. He could reveal to the higher-ups that she is just as traitorous and mutinous as the rebels that lurk outside the arena walls. Crashbang is giving him the dagger with which he can cut out her heart. 

He has no clue why. 

“Do you have anything of substance to say?” 

Crashbang laughs, thin and high-pitched. “No, never.” She stares at him, and somehow she is seeing more of him than a hundred cameras can pick up every time he fights. Somehow, this right now feels more invasive and intrusive than the voyeuristic leer of the audience. “I was just… it doesn’t matter. I guess I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.” 

“I’m not,” he says, still perplexed by her behavior. If he died, yes, her alliance would lose one member. But her position in it would also be shifted. She would fall more in favor with sponsors, with the audience and with Mojo. In the long run, his death would likely benefit her. Whatever game Crashbang is playing behind the curtain, he has no grasp of it. 

“Good. I’m glad,” Crashbang says. “Well. I’m gonna go, then. Goodnight, Ri— Fracturefault.”

“Goodnight,” Fracturefault responds, watching Crashbang depart.

The whitecoats had not given him any pain reducers or sedatives. During sleepshift, he lies awake, feeling the sharp ache in his shoulder and replaying everything that Crashbang said to him tonight. 

He must fall asleep at some point, because in the morning he wakes with a stiffness in his arm. 

* * *

Today is an airing day for Crashbang, so he does not see her during first feeding. She’s in one of the prep rooms having makeup painted onto her and a headdress affixed over her short hair. Warriors endure much primping and pampering in the hours before battle. Fracturefault often has his hair twisted into intricate braids, has his lips and eyes outlined so the Spineless Ones can see his face from every angle of the Arena. 

Fracturefault trains for a long time, moving with practiced care. He uses his seismic abilities only marginally outside of the Arena, saving his energy for his actual fights. He eats when the sustenance tone sounds. 

Crashbang is set to fight Strikestrafe. The odds and wagers favor her, and her sponsors have been hyping this match in advertisements for a week. It will be an entertaining but straightforward fight. 

Fracturefault is glad, because for Crashbang to win a fight usually means more points and more rations for their alliance. He goes to the viewing room early to get a good seat. Warriors are not permitted to watch the fight from the Arena seating— that is, of course, reserved for Spineless Ones. 

But the fights are broadcast all over Mojoworld. They play in every screen in the city, including the warriors’ quarters. Viewing rooms are set up in each block with huge television screens and rows of seats lined up. 

An advertisement for some sort of snack food is playing when Fracturefault sits down. He’s never eaten anything but protein ration, and he wonders what Mojomunch chips might taste like. Warriors eat for strength, not for flavor. What rations they do get, they are grateful to Lord Mojo for providing. They are grateful. They eat well. They are grateful. 

And then he sees Crashbang in stunning high-definition. Her face is painted and she’s wearing an elaborate wig. Spineless Ones cheer and howl from the stands, a cacophony of glee and glory. 

The camera focuses on Strikestrafe, Crashbang’s opponents. She is dressed all in white— easier to see the blood that way. Her teeth are bared— Crashbang is going to win, definitely, but Strikestrafe won’t give in without a fight. 

The bell chimes and the fight begins. 

They waste no time pacing or dancing around each other. Crashbang and Strikestrafe lunge at each other, hands clawing, teeth gnashing. Neither has been given a weapon for this fight, so they grapple hand-to-hand. 

Minutes tick by. Ultimately, Crashbang elects to use her special advantage. Like Fracturefault, her genetic makeup lends itself to special abilities. Instead of shaking the earth, Crashbang can make balls of energy that explode after a delay. 

Now, she uses this ability to stun Strikestrafe and throw her off balance. In a quick feat of footwork, she sweeps Strikestrafe’s legs out from under her and follows her to the ground, landing blow after blow on her jaw and her stomach. Crashbang pins her. 

Crashbang wins. Everyone knew she would. 

Standing victorious, Crashbang turns to look at the programmer’s box and waits for the signal. The audience howls, “Cancel! Cancel!” They want to see more blood. They want to see death and carnage tonight— every night, really. 

Crashbang waits. 

The RENEW sign remains unlit. The CANCEL sign glows red. 

In the viewing room, warriors cheer. They are hungry for action. They want to see their comrade kill the opponent. Fracturefault sits very still and watches the screen. Crashbang looks upset, which is strange, because she should be thrilled. Cancelling an opponent tends to make ratings go up. Her rations might even increase. Maybe she’ll get larger quarters. This is only good news. So why does she look like that?

The audience screams for cancellation. Crashbang looks down at the wounded woman at her feet. The crowd thirsts for violence. She manifests a ball of light in one hand and leans down, presses it into Strikestrafe’s mouth. The opponent is helpless, can do nothing to stop her. Crashbang holds her hand there for two seconds, and then she pulls away. 

Right before Strikestrafe’s head explodes in a spray of blood that decorates Crashbang’s face and hands, Crashbang says something. The TV mutes it out, but it looks to Fracturefault like she might have said,  _ “I’m sorry.” _

* * *

Fracturefault is in his quarters after the fight. The slow tread of Crashbang’s tired footsteps alerts him. Bloodspray stains her neck and face. Her hands are dirty, too. She should be headed to the wash stations, but she came to him first. 

Crashbang stands at the threshold of his quarters and looks at him. “Do you remember the sky?” she asks, and her voice sounds strange, watery and wavery in a way he does not recognize. “Do you remember what it looked like, the sky? Do you even remember what that word means?” Her teeth are red, but whether it’s her blood or her opponent’s, Fracturefault does not know.

He finds himself remembering her words to him the day before. “Are you okay?” The words feel strange in his mouth, as if he’s speaking another language.

Crashbang’s eyes grow very large, and then she turns and leaves without another word. 


	2. Chapter 2

Tabitha Smith didn’t think she’d ever hate a place more than she hated Asgard, but the Mojoworld makes running from demonic Valkyries look like a picnic with the Smurfs. The Mojoworld is ugly and violent and cruel and you aren’t even allowed to act scared or sad about it, you have to grit your teeth in a horrible grin and pretend it’s all just fine. 

When Gog and Magog showed up back on Earth, she’d been convinced she could take them on herself. But then Magog absorbed her timebomb and it just made him stronger. That was the point at which she’d screamed for her teammates and Rictor had come running. Before his vibe-quake could do any damage to the father-son duo, though, the big one opened up a portal and dragged them through. 

After that it’s a string of what-ifs for Tabitha. What if she’d yelled the instant she’d seen Gog and Magog? What if she and Ric hadn’t been weak and worn-down from Operation: Zero Tolerance? What if they hadn’t followed Shatterstar and Cable to the Mojoworld when they were captured before? What if she’d never joined X-Force? 

Nothing to be done.

Techno manacles are clamped over her arms and legs, same with Rictor. The two of them are suspended upside-down in front of a pair of television screens with too many knobs, dials and switches. It feels like being in a dentist’s chair from the Twilight Zone. 

“Tabby,” Ric says, trying to speak despite the metal claws tugging at his mouth, warping his face into a horrific caricature of a smile. “It’s okay. It’s… we’ll be… whatever happens, we’ll be… whatever…” The contraption he’s hooked up to looks like something out of  _ Clockwork Orange _ . “Whatever… Mojo wants… Mojo gets. Whatever Mojo wants…” 

“No,” Tabby says miserably, wriggling in her own bonds. The TVs flash on then, projecting a string of bright lights and funky images. It feels a little like if she stuck her head in a microwave. The mindwipe is starting, and Rictor’s already breaking. Mojo is taking her best friend from her. 

She’ll be damned if he gets her, too. 

She can’t close her eyes or cover her ears, can’t get away from Mojo’s mindwipe machine. They’re going to turn off her brain, as easily as switching off a TV set. Unless… 

Unless she turns it off herself. 

Her hand is close enough to her head that if she makes a timebomb, if she aims it just right, if she makes sure it hits the side of her head at just the right time, if the blast is actually enough to render her unconscious, if she doesn’t just blow up her head… If, if, if. 

It’s this or nothing. This or Mojo. 

The timebomb glows in her hand. “Three,” Tabitha says despite the machinery sticking into her mouth, “two… one.”  _ Boom _ . Everything goes dark. 

* * *

When Tabby comes to, she’s terrified that she isn’t herself. How would she know? How do you know if you’ve been brainwashed? Dog-faced guards take her and Rictor to separate cells, and she doesn’t say anything but her mind is spinning the whole time. 

She tells herself,  _ Your name is Tabitha Smith. You’re a member of X-Force. You don’t belong on Mojoworld _ . It’s not like there’s any programming kicking in and telling her otherwise. She tries thinking,  _ Mojo is a fucking bastard _ , and she doesn’t get zapped or struck by lightning or anything, so they must not be able to read her mind.

None of these guards or handlers can tell she’s still herself, not brainwashed like… like… 

Rictor is here, somewhere. And he’s probably not himself. She has to remember that. Mojo’s guards might try to use him against her, and she won’t let that happen. The first time she ever met Rictor, he was yelling at her that dying was better than being turned into a weapon. 

She’s not about to let Mojo use him the way Cameron Hodge tried to. 

All the lights here are artificial, and there are no clocks, so it’s hard for Tabby to keep track of how much time is passing. They feed her once, some kind of mushy colorless glop, and then they move her from her cell to a long row of industrial-looking sleeping quarters. No doors. No privacy. People pass around her, not really interested in who she is or what she’s doing there. 

They all remind her of Shatterstar when he first came to Earth— single-minded, obedient, stealthy, seldom-spoken. Something in her chest cracks. This was Shatterstar’s childhood, this place. It kind of makes her own upbringing look like fucking  _ Full House _ . 

“In here,” one of the dog-faced guards says, leading her to a doorless room with a cot and a sink. Well, she did say she was tired of sharing a room with Theresa. Tabby grits her teeth and sits on the edge of her cot, waiting for the guards to filter out. Rictor is here somewhere. She’ll find him.

She’ll find him if it kills her. 

Taking care of Rictor has kind of been her job since she found him in the Right’s headquarters all those years ago. He’d probably say the same thing about her, she thinks. They argue with each other and look after each other and keep each other from doing stupid, dangerous stuff like falling from catwalks or wandering through the Morlock tunnels and picking fights with Sabretooth. 

It used to be Rictor, Tabby, Rusty and Skids. Then it was Rictor, Tabby, Roberto, Dani, Sam, Rahne and Warlock. Then it was Rictor, Tabby, Shatterstar, Jimmy and Terry. But it’s always Rictor and Tabby. 

She has to find him. 

As soon as she decides it’s safe enough, Tabby ventures from her quarters and goes looking for Rictor. She guesses that he can’t be far— they’d fill up the closest quarters before moving farther, right? Maybe there’s no logic to the Mojoworld arena. Maybe she’ll never find Rictor. 

She finds Rictor.

He’s a few corridors away, in a tiny room identical to hers. Same cot, same sink. Rictor is sitting on the edge of the cot staring into space. “Hey,” Tabby whispers, and then again, louder, “Hey!”

“Why are you here?” His voice is stilted, emotionless. Even though she was expecting it, Tabby’s heart sinks. 

“Do you know me?” she asks desperately. “Do you know your name?” 

He stares at her, eyes vacant. “I have no name,” he says. “My designation is Omnidra-12.” 

“You  _ do _ have a name,” she says, reaching for his hands. He draws them away, quickly, and Tabitha realizes she’s crying. “You do have a name. Your name is Julio Esteban Richter. You’re from  _ Earth _ , okay? You’re not… you don’t…” Her voice has risen in volume, and a few other gladiators are shooting her strange glances. 

Rictor doesn’t show any sign of recognition at hearing his name. 

“I promise I’ll get you out of here,” she says. Maybe it’s not a promise she can keep, but it’s damn sure a promise she can make. “I’ll bring you home, Ric. I promise.” 


End file.
